You ain't got domestic goddessness like I got domestic goddessness

So what did you do Saturday evening? Something wild and exciting? No, I'm oncall this weekend so going anywhere interesting was out of the question. I cleaned the house. I cleaned the kitchen from head to foot. All surfaces, the cooker, the front and sides of the fridges and freezers (yes, we have two of each) and the floor. Even scrubbed it, which is hard on the knees on ceramic tiles. Then did the bathroom and the downstairs toilet and finally hoovered everywhere. You're impressed, right? This may seem a curious choice for a Saturday night, especially when Spain v. Russia was on BBC1, but I offer three prospects which made scrubbing the kitchen floor more attractive:

1. Listening to John Motson sound like he's about to have a spontaneous emission every time a Spanish player crosses the halfway line
2. Listening to Mick McCarthy at all, ever
3. Motson's inevitable mangling of Russian and Spanish names

Although I missed the game, I am reliably informed that the forward Vicente became "Vichentay" as if he were Italian rather than Spanish and I have no difficulty imagining what happened to the Russian names, having spent last season screaming "It's Smertin, as spelled, you ignorant bastard, not Shmertin - he's Russian, not German!" every time Portsmouth appeared on TV.

The clincher was Motson saying just before kickoff that "it's worth remembering that Russia are only here because Wales failed in their challenge to the Court of Arbitration for Sport". WHY is it worth remembering this? Anyway, it's bollocks. Russia are there because Wales didn't have the minerals to get the job done on their own patch in the playoff.

I know I shouldn't let my hatred of a commentator stop me watching a game and possibly I wouldn't have if I'd remembered that thanks to BBC Interactive I could switch Motson off. But then I would have had a choice of the crowd only, which I don't like, or the Radio Five commentary and then I'd have to listen to that sanctimonious gobshite Alan Green. So maybe you can see why cleaning the bog seemed quite appealing.

Another Laurel and Hardy moment

I had another one of those episodes right out of a Laurel and Hardy movie this morning. I forget the title; it's a lot of years since I saw it. The one where Ollie spends most of the film searching with increasing urgency and frustration for his hat. The big joke of course being that he's been wearing it the whole time. I did much the same this morning. Having brought my mobile phone downstairs I was about to leave for work when I couldn't lay hands on it. Looked everywhere on my desk. Went back upstairs. Went in the kitchen. Eventually I gave up and phoned it. Whereupon it buzzed. In my back pocket. Premature senility, no doubt. I get it from my dad.

Summer outside, winter inside

Whoever controls the air-conditioning in this building needs to be bitch-slapped repeatedly until they get it right. Or better still, forced to sit in my desk for a week and see if that concentrates the mind. There's bright blazing sunshine outside, but it's as cold as a witch's tit in here. It's ridiculous that we should have to wear additional clothing in the middle of summer, and worse still when the room next to us is perfectly normal and comfortable and it's even okay at the other end of this room. We keep kvetching at building management, but nothing ever gets done. Sigh.